


didn’t mean to fall in love (and break my own heart)

by TheSkinHorse



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Episodes 1x01 to 1x05, F/F, Implied Smut, Scylla is my homegirl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSkinHorse/pseuds/TheSkinHorse
Summary: Two times Scylla lies and one time she tells the truth.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 18
Kudos: 233





	didn’t mean to fall in love (and break my own heart)

**Author's Note:**

> So I kindof hate this but I couldn’t get it out of my head and needed to write it. Please be gentle, it’s been nearly 7 years since I’ve written anything, and this is unbeta’d.

**One**

_Always_ _keep_ _people_ _at_ _a_ _distance_ , _and_ _you’ll_ _never_ _get_ _hurt_.

You were good at that, staying just barely accessible. It’s what made you perfect for the task at Fort Salem. _Bring_ _the_ _girl_ _to_ _us_ , they told you. _Be_ _charming_.

It was easy for you to be charming. It came naturally to you; the right words were always on the tip of your tongue, your smile perfectly alluring, the ideal mix of approachable and unattainable written across your features.

You wait for the moment to strike, and she presents you with that opportunity early into training when she sneaks out of class.You’re both apprehended in your endeavour. “I was looking for the infirmary,” she explains.

“Me too,” you chime in with a little white lie.

It turns out that she is equally as charming and endearing as you are. Where you rely on practiced bravado, she is raw and genuine. She matches your banter and smiles back at you.

“I’m Raelle,” she replies. Hook, line, and sinker.

She’s reckless, and impulsive. She’s fury. And she’s beautiful. And for all her wild, she trusts you - she follows where you lead, takes the salva from your hand, and floats away with you. It’s almost too easy.

Then one night, she takes the lead. You grasp for the words that the Spree drilled into your mind, but when she’s knuckle-deep inside you it’s hard to think about her getting _out_ when all you want is her to go _in_.

They never told you why they want her, but underneath her that night you can understand what could draw anyone to her. Like a moth to a flame; she is a brilliant fire, burning a trail down your neck, your chest, the dip of your navel. She’s pleasantly rough, her fingers leaving marks where they grip your thighs and throw your legs over her shoulders.

You have to remind yourself as she hurtles you over the edge with a swipe of her tongue, that you are the one in control here, you have her exactly where you want her.

“The way over, is under,” you mumble, ghosting your hands across the arms draped loosely around your waist. She stirs lightly but doesn’t wake, simply burrows her face against the back of your shoulder, her warm breath skating over the shining witch-mark there. “The way out, is in.” 

**Two**

Porter complicates things. You cared for him once; he was kind, funny, available. Your options were admittedly limited when your family was hiding from the law, but he was as young and eager as you were.

He knew you before you became what you are now, but he saw the seeds planted, saw them begin to unfurl. Would he have tried to stop you, had you stayed? He looks at you in disbelief when you try to brush him off and you know that this endangers your mission.

He pushes you to reveal more of your hand than you would have liked. Your parents’ death is still an open wound, one that never seems to heal. You’ve never been ashamed of your upbringing - conscription is slavery by another name after all - but it’s still illegal and garners scorn wherever you go.

There is no scorn in her eyes when you tell her. She pulls you close and comforts you, something that you didn’t expect. There is no sympathy for draft-dodgers, and yet she accepts it as merely a part of you. You briefly wonder if she would accept the other parts of you too.

Later that day, you know you can’t risk finding out the limitations of her approval. Porter is too close to the truth when he barges into your room, and you have too much to lose.

“ _I_ _am_ _filled_ _with_ _an_ _unbearable_ _sadness_ ,” you say to him, willing away the sadness you feel in your own body. Your work has always been impeccable and now is no different; he absorbs the words and pulls away, meandering from your room in a trance.

“There was always something off with him,” you tell Raelle. “He was disturbed. He was angry.” It doesn’t placate her at first but you remain diligent - you aren’t going to allow this hiccup to ruin everything you’ve built.

“I did see him that night. He wanted to get back together, and I didn’t,” you finally convince her, and while it isn’t completely false, you feel the weight of your actions press down on you. But just as quickly, the weight is lifted when she kisses you, again and again and again.

“I’m with you”, she says, and your heart betrays you the way it quickens.

**Three**

You know you’re in trouble when you can’t help but smile when you see her sprawled out across your bed that morning. She’s always full of surprises lately and you relish them, quickly covering her mouth with your own, giggling at the sweet contact.

What’s never surprising anymore is the way she takes charge, pushing you onto your back and straddling your waist, her hands coming to wrap around your throat. This is a game you’ve played many times over the past few weeks, learning together what boundaries you can push for the sake of pleasure, the delicate balancing act between headrush and suffocation. Raelle is a Fixer to her very core, her touch always soothing even as it harms, heightening the sensations of your fun.

Your panic sets in when she doesn’t release the pressure despite your signal.

Raelle’s face ignites and crumbles away, revealing a different woman astride your body. “The wedding the Bellweathers are throwing, get yourself invited,” the woman warns, and then departs before you have even caught your breath.

Raelle is confused later when you steer that night in a different direction, and climb atop her before she has a chance to get you beneath her. Confusion melts into acquiescence when you slip one hand below her waistband and thread the other into her golden hair. You delight in her unraveling though you miss the thrill of your usual game, but you can’t risk the same mistake twice.

You pointedly ignore that your greater mistake was developing feelings for your target.

Faced with the balloon in the mirror, it becomes harder to ignore. “I need to know she’ll be safe once I get her there. Should I wait with her?” you question. You are denied answers yet again and it rattles you, shakes your resolve. And when you see her sitting on the steps of the dance-floor, that resolve falters even more, the conflict in her eyes mirroring your own.

“Come with me. Have that walk on the beach,” you try weakly, not at all convincing, to either yourself or to her. Instead she asks to dance again, and you cannot find it in you to deny her, no matter the impending hour on the clock.

It’s almost comical to you then that you once thought you were in control of this situation. Even as you dance now, she guides you, sets the pace, her hand unwavering and steady at your waist. You willingly let her take the lead every time.

“No matter what happens, I love you,” you admit to her quietly. She doesn’t say anything back, but you can feel the curve of her smile against your skin.

You were supposed to keep her at a distance, that way you would never get hurt.

But in that moment, you realize you would gladly suffer for eternity to have that one last dance.


End file.
